


Sunrise/Sunset

by Elsin



Category: Original Work
Genre: (but this is not the focus), Action/Adventure, Enemies to Friends, Epic Battles, Fantasy, Gen, Literary References & Allusions, Magic, Non-Linear Narrative, Portal Fantasy, Prophecy, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:06:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24582034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsin/pseuds/Elsin
Summary: The last time Magdalene sees Willem Hastings, it’s in the blazing red sunset at the end of the world.That's not as important as everything that comes before.
Relationships: Prophesied Hero & Prophesied Dark Lord
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	Sunrise/Sunset

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GriegPlants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GriegPlants/gifts).



> Many thanks to Karios, who kindly beta'd this and is also the reason it has a summary at all.  
> Any remaining mistakes are mine alone.

The last time they meet is on the Field of Lost Souls, Lady Light in her armor shining silver with the captured light of the moon, the Champion of Shadows in his robe of stolen stardust.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” she tells him, even as she holds her sword and shield firm.

He laughs sharply. “Oh, but it does,” he says, and so they fight.

* * *

The first time they meet face-to-face is in a small diner in Cle Elum, well off the beaten path. Magdalene is in the leather jacket she appropriated from her cousin Lia when she went off to college, nursing a giant mug of coffee that’s really half sugar.

She’s been waiting for three hours; the remains of a meal and her intermittent snacking are spread out on the table before her. The clock ticks ever-closer to midnight, and she leans back against the slightly-sticky booth.

At this hour, the only staff person left is Ashley, who will kick her out at half-past twelve; Magdalene hopes it won’t come to that. One evening spent out here is more than enough for her, and from the suspicious looks Ashley is giving her she suspects she mightn’t be very welcome back, either.

At five minutes to midnight, the bells at the door ring out, loud against the late-night quiet. Magdalene has her back to the door: this is neutral territory, and to attack her here would bring the Great Wrath down on the man she’s here to meet. Neither of them wants that, and this is a show of trust.

“Sorry I’m late,” says a young man, sliding into the booth across from her. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was her own age or even younger, but she _does_ know better. “I got held up at the Border.”

“I know the feeling,” says Magdalene, taking a sip from her mug. “I can’t exactly offer you my own foodstuffs, unfortunately, but if you’d like something off the menu here I’d be happy to pay for it.”

“You wouldn’t be,” he says wryly. “Still. Your offer is appreciated.”

They sit in silence for a little while longer, Magdalene drinking her coffee and the young man across from her studying her carefully.

“So,” he says finally. “You’re Lady Light.”

“And _you’re_ the Champion of Shadows.”

There’s another long, awkward pause before the Champion of Shadows sighs and runs a hand through his chin-length golden hair. “Look, Lady Light—”

“Call me Lena,” says Magdalene. She’s never liked being called Lady Light; even after all these years it feels a little wrong. The Champion of Shadows can’t know her full name, but that doesn’t mean he can only know her title, either.

He laughs, the first truly honest emotion she’s seen from him thus far. “Then you can call me Will,” he says. “But I was going to ask—why are we here? There’s only one way for this to end, you know.”

“We go our own peaceful ways, and don’t break a thousand treaties by fighting on neutral ground,” says Magdalene, smiling idly at him. He huffs another laugh.

“You know what I meant,” he says. “Not—not _here_. The story—it only ends one way, or at least there’s only one path it goes down to get there.”

She tilts her head a little. “Why are you so sure about that? I mean, I know why the Heartfire thinks it has to happen that way—but you’re not from Aldrav, any more than I am. So, why?”

He studies her for a few long moments, but there’s little of the earlier tension that lay between them. “I’m not from Aldrav, no,” he finally says. “But I’m hardly from _here_ either, am I?” He shakes his head. “You don’t understand,” he says frankly, “and—well, I can’t really blame you. But Ivaria is bound up together with Aldrav, the way Aldrav isn’t with this world, and—it’s been here my whole life, Lena. It’s always been the way of things; it’s always come to pass. Why _wouldn’t_ I be sure?”

“I suppose I never did think of it like that,” Magdalene says. She shrugs. “I suppose it’s just a little strange to me still—we don’t really have what you’d call _prophecy_ here, after all.”

Will shakes his head again. “Would that I could understand that,” he says fervently.

The silence falls again, only to be broken by Ashley. “Five minutes till closing,” she says. “I’ll bring you the bill.”

“That’s my cue, then,” says Will. He gets up, and nods to Magdalene. “Good luck,” he says. “Do try to make it all the way to the Field; I’d hate to have to find _another_ mortal enemy.”

“Good luck, Will,” says Magdalene. She doesn’t really mean it the way he might take it—she doesn’t want him to have luck in building his armies, or fighting his battles. She’d rather see him get out of the game altogether.

Will walks away, leaving Magdalene alone in the booth with her mostly-drained mug in front of her and a borrowed handgun in a side holster, hidden under her leather jacket.

She drains the last of her drink, pays the bill, and walks out into the warm August night.

* * *

The last time Magdalene is summoned to Aldrav, it’s not a good time for her. She’s only halfway through her twelfth grade history final when the rune on her wrist warms and starts to glow.

Twelfth grade can wait. Aldrav can’t.

Magdalene hands in her test paper, makes her excuses to her teacher, and leaves swiftly. No one bats an eye at it; everyone knows that, for all that she’s good with her work when she’s present, she’s prone to strange disappearances. They also know that she always comes back.

She doesn’t tell anyone that there’s a very real possibility she won’t be coming back this time. That would just worry them, and—well. She doesn’t _need_ to worry them.

If she can’t come back, Rhiannon can find a way through; she'll explain everything to Aunt Mara.

Technically, Magdalene could answer this call from anywhere—but it’s a tricky thing, trying not to be seen in the city, and she’s always found it easier to disappear from an area with green growing things. So she gets on the bus, route 75 going north, and gets off near the park.

Through the old gates that never close anymore, down the road beyond them, she heads for the wetlands: in all that greenery, in the middle of the school day in May, she’ll be able to disappear easily enough.

Once she’s far enough down the paths, witnessed only by the ducks and rabbits, she presses the rune on her wrist to her lips and closes her eyes, and disappears from her world with a faint popping sound.

A small woodpecker is momentarily startled; apart from that, life goes on.

* * *

The first time Magdalene is summoned to Aldrav, it’s not exactly a deliberate thing, and it doesn’t particularly resemble any summons that comes later.

She’s only eleven, but she and Aunt Mara already have plenty to argue about. Today it’s about the light blue sundress and matching sandals that Magdalene borrowed from her cousin Lia—Aunt Mara doesn’t think it appropriate for a girl _like Magdalene_. And she never can quite help the way she grimaces when she sees Magdalene’s mop of curly dark hair; _your lion’s mane_ , she calls it, no matter how Magdalene begs her not to, and she always wants to pull it back or cut it.

It isn’t unusual for Magdalene to run off for a few hours, wandering back home by dusk. The walks are nice; they give her time to clear her head, time to think things through, to exist outside the framework Aunt Mara allows her.

Today, she goes to the Arboretum to wander aimlessly; it’s the wrong time of year for visitors and the wrong time of year for her dress, but the shivering is worth it to her.

Now, Magdalene has been to the Arboretum more times than she’d really care to admit, though she's only eleven. But even with that she doesn’t have a good grasp on the exact geography of the place; that’s never really been her strength. Still—well.

She notices, after a while, that something is _different_ around her. The air smells different; the hedges she’s moving between have grown greener and more vibrant. The faint sound of the traffic outside the park has vanished entirely, and—she realizes this almost belatedly—she isn’t cold anymore.

The sounds of traffic are gone, but, she realizes soon enough, they’ve been replaced by a new sound; there are people, some ways ahead of her, laughing and chattering in a cadence that isn’t quite _right_.

Magdalene rounds the final corner, and stops dead. She blinks, hard, at the sight before her.

A lush green lawn sprawls out before her, and all across it there are groups of people dressed in strange old-fashioned clothing. That would be odd enough by itself, but on the other side of the lawn there’s a—there’s a—

There’s a _palace_ on the other side of the lawn, its spires sparkling in the sunlight like something straight out of a fairytale. Behind it is a jagged mountain range, white-capped even in the warm weather, too close and too sharp to be the Cascades or the Olympics, and Magdalene is suddenly a little dizzy with the idea her mind won’t let go—what if this isn’t the same Arboretum she stepped into?

She spins around and darts back into the hedge maze, trying to retrace her steps, but no matter how far back she goes she can’t find the point where everything changed. Honestly, it was so gradual that she’s not really sure that there _was_ a point, per se—but still. Everything remains lush and green and warm.

Eventually she stumbles out of the maze and finds herself exactly where she started—at the edge of the lawn, gazing up at the palace. She swallows hard, and plops down, propping her chin on her knees, heedless of how her skirt crumples beneath her or the likelihood of grass stains from sitting on the lawn.

All around her, the world has gone unsteady. She doesn’t know if this is really its state, or if she’s just off-balance herself.

This isn’t her world. It _can’t_ be her world.

After all, her world doesn’t have anywhere quite like this. Not anymore.

* * *

The last time Magdalene dons her armor, she’s steady. She doesn’t want to do this, not really, but she won’t hesitate either—if Will wants a fight, then a fight he’ll get.

She’s eighty going on eighteen; her body is strong and her reflexes are well-trained and, as Rhiannon helps her buckle the armor into place, she flexes her fingers appreciatively. There’s magic under her skin again, warm and buzzing, the way it never is on Earth.

Her trainers don’t call themselves _Heartfire_ for nothing, she supposes, but still she never fails to appreciate it.

Rhiannon slips her moon-silver helmet over her crown braid and holds out her sword and shield.

Magdalene slides the shield onto her arm, takes the sword, and nods sharply to Rhiannon.

It’s time.

* * *

The first time Magdalene dons her armor, she’s shaky, still aching and a little raw from the ritual that remade her body into an image she can live with. She wasn’t supposed to wear it so soon after being remade, but needs must, and there’s word in the palace that the Champion of Shadows is rising in the west.

Magdalene is Lady Light, or so they tell her, and she’s been training for this for the past five years. She _should_ be able to handle it.

There’s no Rhiannon to help her into her armor this first time. Instead she has a nervous guardsman to help her; there are more important things for the others to do, after all, when they’re preparing for a grand battle—and for all that Magdalene is Lady Light, she’s still only one girl, sixteen going on seventeen.

Still. She may be young, and relatively newly arrived, but her teachers all tell her that she has a remarkable grasp on the magic of this world; if the Champion of Shadows is indeed rising again, she needs to be there to stand in his way.

She buckles on her sword belt and hangs her shield from her saddle before swinging herself onto her horse.

At the front of the regiment she’s joined by King Hadrian, who nods grimly to her before signaling the army to move out.

Magdalene flicks her reins and her horse moves in time with the others. She can only hope that none of them realize how terrified she is of the fight to come; she buries her fear deep down, and smiles into the pleasant morning breeze.

* * *

The first and last time that Magdalene hears the prophecy, she’s aching all over, exhausted from her third confrontation with the Champion of Shadows. All that saves her from collapsing into the river after she stumbles away from his encampment—at least his acolytes didn’t take her in her armor, _that_ would have been a disaster—is a small, strong hand on her arm.

“Come on,” says a voice—a girl, she thinks. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Magdalene remembers very little for a while after that.

The next thing she knows, she’s sitting with a blanket around her shoulders in a comfortable, well-worn armchair in a small cozy cabin, and a girl who looks about as old as she does is pressing a mug of some warm drink into her hands. Magdalene breathes in the steam that rises off of it, and even just that is enough to send warmth through her.

It turns out to be a rich tea, lightly spiced with flavors she knows she’d never find on Earth. And she finds herself perking up as she drinks it; her magic swirls under her skin again, when she’d been nearly drained dry by the confrontation a mere few hours earlier.

When the mug is emptied and Magdalene, though still aching and exhausted, feels at least a little less bone-tired, the girl reaches out and takes it back.

“I’m Rhiannon,” she says. “I hope you don’t mind I brought you back here—you weren’t doing too well, and it’s not always safe down by the river these days.”

“Magdalene,” says Magdalene, and Rhiannon’s gaze sharpens.

“You might not want to go around throwing that name out willy-nilly,” she says slowly. “I don’t know how long you’ve been here, but—that name’s not quite as inconspicuous as it might’ve been, once.”

“Oh.” That makes enough sense, she supposes—her last confrontation with the Champion of Shadows was far more spectacular than the first, and the hundred-odd years that have passed in Aldrav since then would be plenty of time to turn it to legend, make her name be whispered far and wide.

She doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“You might as well know who I am,” says Rhiannon after a while. “I know who you are, after all, Lady Light.”

Magdalene winces. “Please don’t call me that. Call me—I don’t know, call me Lena if you must. If Magdalene is too much.”

“All right, then, Lena.” Rhiannon laughs softly. “I’m—well. They call me the Guardian, or the Keeper. Sometimes they call me the Watcher, though that one’s less often.”

“Keeper of what, exactly?” Magdalene tilts her head.

“This and that.” Rhiannon shrugs. “Mostly information. But I know a lot of things that really aren’t common knowledge—including at least one thing that you should probably know yourself.”

“Which is?”

“The prophecy.”

For a long moment silence reigns. Magdalene stares at Rhiannon, still sitting there quietly, like she didn’t just tell her something that seems about to upend her world.

Heartfire won’t tell her exactly what it is that makes _her_ so special; they say it’s written in the stars, and now bound into the skin of her wrist—nothing to be done about it. She just needs to go and fight the Champion of Shadows, the would-be Dark Lord, time and time again. Keep at it, all through time. Don’t ask why; you won’t get to know anyway.

“You can… you can tell me it?”

“If you want to hear it.”

Magdalene drags a hand through her unruly dark hair, and gives Rhiannon an incredulous look. “Of _course_ I want to hear it.”

Rhiannon sighs a little, sits back in her chair, and begins to speak. The voice that comes out isn’t quite like the one she’s been using up until this point—it’s rough and low, and the cadence is strange.

_She will come through the garden and into the light_

_and step out of the land out of time._

_He will walk under mountains and into the shade_

_from the land where no clock can be right._

_They will fight and do battle until the last chime_

_and the Earthbreaker's tale for to tell_ —

_he'll be Champion of Shadows and she Lady Light_

_in the final great battle sublime._

_On the Field of Lost Souls is cast then the spell_

_and the Champion and Lady will fall_

_like the Empire of Darkness, the dust all around_

_so then lastly will come our farewell._

_Then in Aldrav will echo the final great call_

_and the ashes rise up 'round the dead,_

_as the Field of Lost Souls embraces its name_

_and the peace through the land rings for all._

* * *

The last time Magdalene sees Willem Hastings, it’s in the blazing red sunset at the end of the world. She finds him on the beach at Dhagar, looking as young as he always has—the only thing that betrays his age is his long white hair, now falling down his back in a single braid.

Magdalene looks far older than him, even though she knows she isn’t. He lived through it all, after all, and Magdalene has only ever seen snapshots.

“Magdalene,” he says, turning to look at her as she approaches. “Gods, you’ve gotten old.”

Magdalene elbows him, none too gently, and grins when he flinches. “You’re one to talk,” she says. “It’s only luck that lets you stay so pretty, after all.”

“I suppose so,” he says.

There isn’t much to say between them, here at the end of the world; they settle into a comfortable silence on the soft white sands, the water lapping at their feet, and watch the sun as it sets for the final time and the Long Twilight steals its way over the world.

Aldrav has always been larger-than-life to Magdalene; a place where stars burst into being on a planet’s surface and magic flows thick and strong and stories come true. And she’s seen so much of it—she’s seen kingdoms rise and fall, seen the shadows writhe and stretch out and retreat, seen the golden sun shine down on it all.

It’s over. Time in Aldrav doesn’t run like time on Earth, but Magdalene knows that this is the last of it, here at the end.

This world does not end in fire; nor does it end in ice. It ends with the last two of its people, watching the sunset from a white-sand beach.

This is the way the world ends: not with a bang, nor a whimper, but stepping gently into that good night.

Magdalene rests her head on Willem’s shoulder, and he loops his arm around her in turn.

They do not rage against the dying of the light.

* * *

The first time she really sees Willem Hastings, the two of them are on the battlefield, and only in retrospect does she recognize this moment for what it is. She’s winded from the fighting, and the runes along her sword are glowing faintly; a spell that she _really_ doesn’t want to release is building in the back of her mind.

After all, if she releases this spell, there’ll hardly be a battlefield _left_ afterwards. It’ll defeat the Champion of Shadows, sure, but at the cost of everyone and everything in a hundred-mile radius—and that’s not a price that Magdalene is willing to pay. There’d be no point, after all, in being the Savior of nothing but ashes.

Will’s robe is torn and bloody; he’s leaning heavily on his staff and glaring furiously at her.

“Just _do_ it already,” he snaps. “I know you’ve got the power for it—just _do_ it. Let it go.”

“And leave me as what—Queen of the Dust?” she snaps back. “I don’t think so.”

His eyes narrow further. “You don’t understand,” he says, “you—you know what the damn prophecy says. You know how this ends.”

“I _don’t,_ though,” she says. “It’s not half so clear as everyone here seems to think it is, at least.”

There is a war raging all about them, and they’re standing under the darkening skies, arguing about a stupid prophecy. Magdalene wants desperately to attack the Champion of Shadows where he stands, keeping her from rallying her army to her as he is, but her hands are shaking lightly; her sword is glowing brighter. She can’t attack him, no matter how she might want to—not without releasing her spell.

“Cast your spell, Earthbreaker,” Will says, suddenly sounding weary; all the fight is draining out of him. “Before they open the Way.”

She’s been called Earthbreaker before, along with so many other epithets she can hardly keep them straight, and she’s beginning to have a very bad feeling about what that particular moniker is referencing.

“The Way,” she says, very slowly, and the glow is spreading to her armor, working its way up her arms. It takes all her strength to keep her blade steady, and the runes are blazing like tiny suns. “ _The_ Way.”

“Yes,” says Will, and everything falls into place.

“You’re going to let Them in,” she says, quickly now; they haven’t much time. “Do you _want_ to let them in?”

He laughs bitterly. “My story ends here, Lena,” he says, “no matter what I do. My empire falls, and so do I. Why shouldn’t I open the Way?”

“The prophecy never said that we have to die,” she throws back. “So what do _you_ want?”

Will’s staring at her like he’s never seen her before, and there’s a wondering light in his eyes. “What are you asking me for?”

“Cast the spell,” says Magdalene. “Open the Way. Let Them come across—but—leave out the fifth matrix.”

Now he’s looking at her like she’s grown a second head. “That would kill us all,” he says.

“And my spell _won’t?_ Will. Please. I know what it’s going to do.” Her shoulders ache, and sweat rolls down her face under her helm. She doesn’t want to trust the Champion of Shadows with—well, with _anything,_ to be honest, least of all something this important—but she has no choice. He’s the only one who _can_ do what she needs done.

“It’s your funeral,” Will says. “Then again, I suppose it doesn’t really matter.” He shrugs, and begins the Gate to the Way.

Magdalene can’t cast spells like this herself, but she knows what to look for; she can recognize that Will’s doing as she asked him.

There’s no secondary stabilization on the spell—it’ll work fine, until outside magic touches it, and—well. Magdalene’s rather counting on _that_ part, isn’t she.

By now her arms are all lit up; her helm is glowing too, so bright she can hardly see past it, and though she can’t see her torso or legs she knows that the runes are spreading down her thighs.

She cannot let that spell touch the ground. Not until she’s ready. Not until _everything_ is ready.

If Will isn’t done soon, all of this will have been for nothing.

Her sword is a brightly-burning star, almost blinding; she can no longer discern the runes. The important ones are snaking their way down to her ankles. She steps forward to stand by Will.

The battlefield is quiet. Magdalene doesn’t know if it’s really gone quiet, or if she’s gone a little deaf; either way it hardly matters.

Before her, the Gate to the Way unfurls, golden lines writhing in the air. She thinks it might be beautiful, if it didn’t twist in strange ways that hurt her eyes to look at. Will, still beside her, gasps and breaks off his control; the golden lines spread down to the ground even as Magdalene’s runes run down to her heels.

The Gate touches the ground, and the door begins to open; the glimpse of the Way she sees beyond it nearly makes her turn tail and run, so viscerally wrong it is, but—

She is Lady Light. She cannot go.

Instead, she allows herself to shudder once, then turns her gaze away.

Lady Light steps forward, all lit up like a star in her moonlight armor.

She raises her sword.

Her runes reach the ground.

Magdalene brings her sword down onto the opening Gate.

The world, for a moment, turns upside down; she does not fall from its surface. Below her feet the ground ripples and quakes. She does not stumble; the world doesn’t break.

Almost all of her spell is channeling through her sword. Even with that, the world is twisting all around her.

The Gate of the Way shudders; spiderweb cracks race out across it. Without the fifth matrix, it eagerly drinks in all the magic it encounters, including her spell.

Earthbreaker. Night-slayer. Shadow’s Bane. Magdalene has been called all of these and more, and in this moment she finally understands.

Her light is fading; her strength is leaving her. Above her the Gate shakes and shudders, and she knows it will not last much longer.

The edges of the Gate fracture and fade. The light of her armor is gone; the runes on her sword are dimming swiftly. She needs to let go, or she’ll be lost along with it.

She cannot let go.

She cannot let go.

She cannot let go.

The light of her runes flickers a last time and goes out.

She cannot let go.

The Gate is calling to her.

She cannot let go.

She cannot let go.

She—

Something moves, in the corner of her blurring vision. Something comes crashing down on her moonsilver sword, which should have been unbreakable.

The sword shatters.

The Gate shatters.

Magdalene collapses, her armor falling to dust around her. Though she does not see it, Willem is beside her, his staff broken upon her blade; the lingering quakes knock him to the ground.

On the Field of Lost Souls, Lady Light and the Champion of Shadows do battle. They both fall to the ashes, and there is death in Aldrav.

* * *

She wakes on the Field of Lost Souls. Above her the sky is gray, and the air is cool; she thinks it might be about to rain. Her body aches, right down to her bones, and the magic under her skin is quiet and listless.

Breathing hurts, a little. It’s tempting to just lie there on the Field, let the rain fall on her face when it comes, but she knows she can’t. Without her armor, without her magic, she’s just a girl—albeit one who’s far too old—and she needs to go home.

Slowly Magdalene sits up. All around her the battlefield is in shambles; she might not have _broken_ the land, not quite, but it was a near thing. Only a few feet away from her lie the shattered pieces of her sword, intermixed with fragments of Will’s staff.

Will, who was the Champion of Shadows. Who saved her. Who saved them all. She looks around for him, finding him quickly; he’s only a few feet away, after all, though less clothed than she is—his robe burned away as surely as her armor did, but he, apparently, didn’t wear even a single shirt under it.

Most people of Aldrav would be scandalized. Magdalene just shakes her head a little, then stops—it makes her vision swim and her stomach churn.

She sees him wake; he blinks, then turns his head, and swallows when he sees her.

“Hey,” he says, his voice rough and shaky. All the gold has drained out of his hair, leaving it a pale ashy blond.

“Hey,” says Magdalene, and she isn’t surprised to find her voice as awful as his.

Will shakes his head for a moment, before seeming to hit the same wall Magdalene did; he groans a little and stops moving. “Would you look at that,” he says. “You did it. We’re not dead.”

“ _We_ did it,” she says pointedly.

“If you say so.” Will laughs, though it’s a little strained.

“Really, though,” says Magdalene. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Fine. A team effort.”

Silence falls between them. Magdalene can hear voices calling across the ruined Field in the distance; she should probably get up. Tell her people that she made it through. Tell Rhiannon that she won’t have to venture to Earth and like as not lose a decade in Aldrav.

She finds that she can’t quite summon up the strength to do so, and anyway there’s the problem of Will—she rather doubts that her army will welcome him. Even now she isn’t certain of him herself.

And yet… he risked everything on her wild plan, and he saved her life on top of that. He didn’t have to do that. And now the both of them are free, for the first time in so long—maybe the first time in forever, really.

“Can we start over?” asks Magdalene when she’s finished mulling it all over. “Seeing as we’ve no longer got a prophecy hanging over us and all that.”

“All right,” says Will. “Willem Hastings, at your service.” He gives a tiny half-bow, then gestures to her.

Magdalene doesn’t speak right away. Instead she gets to her feet, and moves very slowly to where _Willem_ is sitting; she offers him a hand, and pulls him to his feet.

Rather than let his hand go, she shakes it, just a little, as he gives her the oddest look.

“That’s the custom back home,” she says. “I’m Magdalene Peters. Pleased to meet you.”

She lets his hand go, and together they turn to look towards the rising sun.

“Willem,” she says, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“What?”

Magdalene laughs. “I’ll try to explain that one later.”

Willem and Magdalene—the former Champion of Shadows and Lady Light—stand together to watch the sun rise onto a new day, a new era.


End file.
